


Kaddis

by Ballades



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, carver and a mabari, kaddis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:56:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: All mabaris need kaddis, but Carver isn't sure he remembers how to make it.





	Kaddis

Carver mixes the kaddis himself from what he can remember. He needs the correct kind of clay for the base, digs in half the stream beds of the southern Free Marches until his hands sink into something fine-grained, with a certain give. He knows immediately when he’s found it, grabbing great handfuls of mud and leaves and humus and flinging them away until the rusty earth is revealed.

He spends a small fortune on dye, stalking through bazaars and markets until he finds the kind his mother used to harvest from the plants outside Lothering. She would always come home with her skin inflamed and itchy, but one look at the bucket of roots and his father would smile fondly, weaving healing magic into the air. Carver will never forget the smell of the magic, nor the dye vat.

There are some other things as well, but the memories are hazy. It’s been years since he’s had a dog, and the last one wasn’t even his. And then his dog has to be strong enough to earn the markings. So Carver waits, gathering ingredients year after year, carrying them around with him until the dog is big enough and trained enough and partner enough for paint.

He doesn’t remember the formulation, but what he’s done works well enough. Carver strokes palms down flanks quivering with excited sniffs, makes spirals with his fingertips, traces the ridge of hair on his dog’s back that stands stiff when in battle. “Almost done,” he murmurs, rubbing kaddis down his dog’s legs. “Hold still, pup.”

With his thumb he draws a streak of red over his dog’s muzzle, beneath the eyes. He stands up, takes a step back to survey his handiwork. “Now you’re ready,” he says, nodding. With his other thumb Carver draws a streak of red over his own nose bridge, going from cheekbone to cheekbone the way his father did.

He’s a Hawke, after all.


End file.
